If I could only write you one word, maybe I wouldn't,maybe I'd lock my heart away for some kind of eternity instead,maybe I'd try to salvage what's left of myself,before I tried to make any kind of headway with you or anybody else.

I can't even count the maybes I've been constructing on my fingers,because there's more than five and five and that makes ten.My bedroom is some kind of disaster and I don't think you'd approve,of the way things are scattered,you told me once that you were a perfectionist, and I said I was the same,but you kind of never believed me,I don't blame you, because I tend to lie half of the time and sometimes more.

I can't even count the times you've caught me staring.

We had a conversation about eye colour and you said mine was kind of special,apparently you rate women on how many shades and colours their eyes produce,I'm rating high, and I have a fever, but I know you'll never admit that I'm hot,just very warm.

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